#planning to do another of these for origins

[leliwardens]

(Article I want to bitch about on my own blog and not put it in the tags.)

I suspected that the devs were super chronically online for various reasons and choices but this basically confirms it. Like oh my fucking god I'm being so genuine and real but they really, REALLY need to log off. You cannot approach any piece of media trying to appease all of the fans, it will never, ever work. Fandom is not a monolith, fans are not a monolith, people will bad faith read your story for fun, or good faith read it, and still come away with an entirely different take than you intention. "Death of an author" is a real and true concept.

"Wipe out a Dalish clan in all three games" is a CHOICE. In Origins it is considered the evil option of the three endings for the quest, you have to encourage the werewolves to want to kill them. In DA2 you're defending the person that the clan has been told is a pariah among the clan AND is now blamed for getting their keeper killed. In Inquisition it is a rather convoluted war table mission, but there are ways to resolve it with no death. But these are choices! The game doesn't give you a gun and leave you no room to avoid it. Taking the choice out isn't a win! It's bad game design for a roleplaying game!

"None of the Dalish would take the side of the evil gods" is not the "win" you think it is (also I guess city elves get shafted again but that's expected) because it flattens any sort of nuance, motivations, messy interactions, or just flaws? In general flaws? Going from one extreme to another in terms of "good" and "bad" is not the "win" you think it is!!! All you've done is removed character agency!!!!

I can't suspend my disbelief enough to accept the entire build up of Inquisition to Trespasser with elves leaving their homes to join Solas only for the reason they're not running around being "oh he'll end the world". Like, how could their lives get worse in that case? Sure, the extremely powerful being claiming to be right out of the mythos said his plan will cause thousands of deaths and the world as you might know it but I'll just head back to my home in the alienage where humans can do whatever they want to me like burn down my home or kill my family with no repercussions. Or I guess since the city elves are practically nonexistent, that was never considered lmfao. Or hell just, elves wanting a grab at power? For selfish reasons? Or well-intentioned reasons? You know, nuance??? Like, fuck dude.

[thatnonameuser]

what type of yandere do you think skully would be? ...or would he be a darling 😈😈🔥🔥

So far because of the AU, I'm making him a yandere. But.. * Insert Crowley Voice Here *  For I am gracious, I’ll give you both. 

Skully is from a time where yandere behaviors weren’t exactly accepted. At that point, it was during the halfway point between acceptable and a criminal act. At that point in time, the courtship was built on affection and darlings during that time had the right to reject their yanderes. (Not without consequences, but that’s a story for another time.) 

As a result, Skully is a gentleman yandere. Polite, affectionate and obsessive, with the same amount of love he has for Halloween. 

As canon Skully is, he’s just looking for excuses to kiss you. But he slowly goes from kissing your hand like a suave gentleman, to kissing your cheek, your lips, neck, trying to make out with you, et cetera. The longer you’re around him, the less he’ll be able to restrain his originally well-tamed urges. 

In a way, he’s also a delusional yandere. Because of his affection, he perceives everything he’ll do as an act of love. Kidnapping you is just the start of a date, gifts with dubious and bloody history are acts of love, drugging and killing people is just removing possible threats to your relationship. 

One thing that’s in your favor though, Skully isn’t a big fan of change. And he’s still adjusting to the fact that all the yanderes of the present are so okay with things that once got people imprisoned or executed back in the day. So he’ll try to save you from them. If you end up staying with him, he’ll be very relaxed as a yandere, allowing you a lot of freedom. 

(One funny thought I had was all the boys accidentally accelerating the acceptance of yandere behaviors with how they behave towards you during the trip and Skully learning from it.)

Skully, as a darling, is much more relaxed about the yandere thing. Same rules about darling’s being able to reject yanderes in his day still apply. 

So his original resistance to deviate from his Halloween traditions is amplified by the strangeness of the other yanderes, because how could they be so calm with something so horrible, AND change the sanctity of Halloween?

If MC is also a darling, then let her breathe a sigh of relief. With how Skully gently kidnaps her, she might be chill and miss the friendship between the two when she inevitably has to leave.  

If MC is a yandere, then well that kidnapping may be a little rough. Specifically, they might be turned into a pumpkin after all, for Skully to feel safe enough to perform the rest of his plan.

(Regardless of which MC is, then Skully will end up doing the opposite of that first thought. In fact, Skully will end up delaying the acceptance of yandere behavior with the spread of the new and better Halloween.)

I hope this was good. I wasn't really sure about it for a bit.

[babeyun]

fool me three times... ✩ s.jy [m]

synopsis: you've come home late twice this week, and for the third time to be on jake's birthday is not as charming as they say. genre: established relationship, pwp (sigh...), angst/smut/tiny bit of fluff pairing: sim jaeyun x fem!reader word count: 3.3k rating: 18+. minors do not interact. warnings: swearing, angry?jake, mentions of jay (poor guy). petnames (baby..sir [free me!!!!]), mentions of voyeurism/3way. oral (f.rec), fingering (f.rec), squirting, degrading, no aftercare (but it's fine i promise) listen to: fallin' - dawn, pH-1 ; abyss - dawn ; meddle about - chase atlantic author's note: i wrote this on a whim, and i'm not entirely happy with it (smut is not my forte nor do i love writing it.) i'd originally planned to take one of my ideas out of the vault and write it in advance, but i got slammed with schoolwork. i am so, so tired as i write this note. happy birthday, jaeyun. i love u.

It's twelve-forty-two in the morning.

This is the third time this week that Jake finds himself sitting on the couch, alone in your shared apartment. He's turned all the lights off, legs crossed over one another as he checks his phone for the fifth time. Nothing.

He sighs inwardly, leaning further into the soft cushions of the couch. You'd picked this out together, and it was one of your favorite places to spend time together that wasn't your bedroom. The soft brown suede had seen the two of you in many situations – cuddling under a soft white blanket Jake's mom gave you for Christmas last year. Sharing a bowl of cereal because you were too lazy to get up and make your own, but you gladly stood up and refilled his bowl. Holding hands tightly when a scary scene came on the television, crashing on the couch after dancing around together to Fallin' by Dawn and pH-1.

Kissing like two desperate lovers, unable to even take your clothes off to fully feel each other's skin. This couch had seen you in every position imaginable, the cushion on the far right the usual place for your face if Jake was too excited to make it to the bedroom.

You were so busy these days. You hadn't had a date night in three weeks, hadn't had sex in two…and unfortunately – it's making him a little insane.

Recently…the couch had seen more and more of Jake, alone. Jake sitting alone, popcorn bowl in his lap as he waited for you to come home from work. Jake, laying down while wearing the oversized hoodie you'd worn the day before, engulfed in the soft grapefruit notes of your perfume. Jake, letting Layla up on the couch to snuggle with because he can't feel your warmth at that moment.

Jake, missing you.

He sighs again, flipping his phone over.

12:45AM.

No new messages from you, no missed calls. Just the soft sound of Abyss by Dawn.

Where have you gone? You were his best friend. His best friend wrapped gently in the sheets of his love, filled to the brim with his soft words and loving caresses. You were his best friend, his lover, his everything. He saw himself in you, his whole purpose was you.

"Shh, he's probably asleep." He hears your voice from the other side of the front door, before hearing you try to gently slide your key in the lock. His eyes widened, pressing pause on the song before bolting for the bedroom. He doesn't make it in time, the door opening and his ears picking up on a familiar laugh.

Jay.

"Jongseong, for the love of God." You grit, and Jake watches as the two of you carefully toe off your shoes, loads of bags in your hands as Jay snickers to himself, carefully tiptoeing to the kitchen in the dark. The hallway light illuminates the back of you, and you suddenly stiffen, lifting your head to meet Jake's eyes.

He scoffs inwardly, watching as you try to fumble with the lightswitch in the living room just as he slides into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him. He locks it, hearing you start an argument with Jay in the kitchen as you shut the front door.

Unfortunately, Jake only stews in his anger. He doesn't know why you're late today, but it seems Jay has your attention more than your boyfriend does. Your boyfriend of three years, pushed to the side the day before (and day of) his birthday for a friend you made through Jake.

Jake flips onto the bed, a frustrated groan from his lips as he hears the two of you rustling around in the kitchen. The fact that you haven't even come to the bedroom to let him know that you're home is even more infuriating, and Jake feels his throat start to burn as he holds back angry tears.

Jake had always been good at setting boundaries and putting feelings first, despite being somewhat of a more logical thinker. You were an incredibly emotional person, hidden behind layers of shitty relationships and hurtful friendships, was your tired heart trying to patch itself up. Jake knew that if it was him that did this – not texting you when he'd be home late, letting you agonize over your whereabouts, coming home with one of your friends in tow and giggling like they had some sort of secret…

You'd make a fucking scene.

But Jake can't bring himself to do that. Even in all his anger, his frustration…his hurt, he can't confront you like that. It's not fair, to either of you (or Jay, but who's talking about that guy right now? Not Jake.)

He takes a deep breath, feeling a tear slip down the side of his face. He wipes it away quickly, only standing up from the bed to unlock the door. He takes your hoodie off, the grapefruit perfume making his chest ache. He knows you could just be planning a surprise for him. He knows that, but his mind can't help but wonder as he pulls back the comforter.

Why three late nights, in one week? Why no messages, why no phone calls? You wouldn't even kiss him hello when you arrived, just a tired smile and a soft hey. Your hair was always in disarray, and he knew it was because you liked to drive with the windows down. He knew that.

Sighing, he slips under the covers, facing away from the door. He hears you laugh loudly, before hearing your soft footsteps make their way to the bedroom. He wipes at his eyes, feeling a few more tears trickle down his fingers as he hears the door open gently.

He doesn't turn to face you, instead choosing to squeeze his eyes shut when he hears you sigh gently.

"I know you're awake." You murmur, but he doesn't respond. He doesn't turn around, choosing to breathe through his mouth to hide the fact that your behavior drove him to tears. You click your tongue, and he hears the zipper of your pants. You're moving around, undressing from the pretty pink blouse and grey slacks he chose for you that morning. 

He pulls the covers up further, covering his bare shoulders before feeling your hand on the back of his neck. Your fingertips are warm, your thumb gently circling his pulse point. "Jake." "What?" He mutters, the bite of his tone not going unnoticed. You sigh, and he peels open one eye to look up at you. "What, Y/N?" He sees your eyes scan his face, before your hand on his neck gives a soft squeeze. "I love you." He doesn't like how quickly the knot in his stomach goes away at your words, or the way you can tell his cheeks and ears are tinging pink. He scoffs, closing his eye and moving from your touch. "I love you, too. Keep it down."

"Mmh." You hum in response, but he feels your hand card through his hair. He huffs, before feeling your lips press gently on his temple. "I miss you, my baby." You say against his skin, and pull away entirely. He hears you open his dresser drawer, and the rustling of his clothing being pulled onto your body. He opens his eyes to see you tug on a random shirt of his, pulling your hair out of the neckline before opening the door. 

"Y/N, where is your butter?!" Jay calls, and you quickly shut the door, scampering down the hall.

He can hear the two of you bickering before you groan frustratedly, and he can hear Jay say he's going to the store. You argue that you don't even really need the butter for the cake, but Jay's words take Jake by surprise.

"Maybe go spend some time with him while I'm out of here. You know, I love you because you're my friend, but you're really dense today. Sometimes your boyfriend just needs you."

You didn't reply, or at least Jake doesn't think you did as he hears the door open and close. He hears you groan, and he's out of bed before he can even realize it. He grabs the hoodie back off the top of the dresser, shoving his head through it before yanking the door open.

"Y/N." He calls from the threshold of the bedroom, and you poke your head out of the kitchen. Your eyes are wide, but he can see how tired you are by the bags under your eyes. You probably took it off during your overtime, you'd been doing that a lot lately.

He sighs, closing the bedroom door behind him as he walks towards the kitchen. You step out, shaking your head. "You can't go in there, Jake. I'm…we…" "I'm just going to get the butter for you." He rolls his eyes, pushing past and looking away from all the stuff on the counter – but not before catching a glimpse of baby blue frosting in a bag. There were egg cartons stacked neatly, and three gallons of milk. Too many bags of flour to count, and Jake opens the freezer to pull out the butter he'd put up there earlier.

He'd gone grocery shopping by himself, because you weren't able to get off work. He wasn't upset about it, but he remembers you liked to freeze the butter until you had to use it. He doesn't remember why, but the habit stuck with him.

Just like all of your other little habits.

Your eyes are wide as he slides it onto the island, before worming back out of the kitchen. He doesn't say anything to you, only slinking past your tired shoulders when you manage to grab his fingers. He stops in his tracks, sighing as you skirt around to face him. He looks down at you, a tense clench in his jaw as he moves his brows in query.

"Don't be mad." You breathe, both your hands now holding his wrist and fingers. Your eyes search his face, finding the anger in the twitch of his brows before he shakes his head. "I'm not. I'm just tired." "I'm tired too, but I'm not looking at you like that." Jake feels his head swim as he takes in the tinge of guilt in your voice. He knows you're trying to do something nice for him, even if you're shitty at keeping secrets. He knows you're not doing anything to hurt him, you just have a horrible way of executing things.

He appreciates you nonetheless, because he knows that you're trying your best. Your schedule is jam-packed – your days are long and frustrating, full of people that need your help constantly, full of you having to make decisions for everyone else.

Jake being someone who values quality time clashed with that. He remembers how he'd squeeze in seeing you during your lunch break when you first started dating, just to have a moment alone. He remembers even waking up early to drive to your old apartment and sit in your bedroom while you got ready for work, just for a chance to give you a good morning kiss.

He made time. You're making time.

"I'm sorry." You speak again, your hands squeezing his arm lightly. "Yeah?" He shakes his head, but you nod quickly, your hands floating to his face.

"I am, I'm sorry. I know I should be–" "Prove it." He cuts you off, his face just inches from yours. Your eyes are glued to his lips, before they flicker up to his. He furrows his eyebrows at you expectantly, your tongue wetting your own lips just slightly. "How?" "You know how." His response is curt, and you swallow hard. "...Can I kiss you?" He doesn't respond, opting to answer physically. His lips press to yours gently, hands snaking around your waist to pull you closer to him. He craved your presence, in any way he could have it. He feels you sigh into his mouth as his fingers slip under your shirt, pinching at the soft skin.

"Bedroom." You mumble against his lips, and he shakes his head. "Right here." His lips move down your jaw, before his teeth catch your earring, tugging it gently. You groan as his hands move under your sweatpants, palming at your ass as you struggle to speak. "Jay-" He growls against your neck, his teeth nipping at the skin before running his tongue over it. "I don't give a shit about Jay. We can give him a show if he wants to watch." 

He reconnects your lips, tongue sliding into your mouth as he moves the two of you back to the couch. His fingers push your sweatpants down as the back of your legs hit the cushion, and you look over at the door, seeing it slightly ajar and unlocked. "The door–" "Fuck the door." He groans, tugging your underwear down in one go. He pushes you gently back against the couch before kneeling in front of you, tugging the clothing off your bottom half before yanking you closer to him by your ankle. You yelp before feeling him bite at your inner thigh. "Jake!" "That's for being late on Monday." He mutters, before sinking his teeth into your other thigh, a whimper from your throat catching his attention. "That's for being late on Thursday." "I'm sorry, I was just–" "I don't want to hear it." He interrupts, shrugging. He lowers his head again, watching you brace yourself for the sharp pain of his teeth, smiling to himself before spitting on your pussy. You jolt, but can't say anything as he quickly drags his tongue through your slit. He laps at you like a dog, messily collecting your arousal on his tongue as you breathe heavily.

His nose bumps your clit as he avoids touching it with his tongue entirely, opting to thrust the wet muscle into your hole as you whine his name out desperately. "J-Jake, please, I'm sorry–" He pulls away, his lips and chin covered in your slick as he runs the tips of his cold fingers through your folds. "You know, you could've texted me."

You shudder as his thumb makes contact with your clit, the pressure light as he circles it. "I know, Jakey, I'm–" "Or called. I paid the phone bill, and I got the confirmation email. Your phone works." He interjects, nodding his head as he eases the tip of his middle finger into you, smiling to himself as your head lolls back. "I'm sorry." You breathe out, Jake's finger curling inside you to brush that spot that makes your eyes roll. He only hums in response, feeling you cover his hand in your arousal as he slowly adds another finger, relishing in the wet sound of your pussy against his hand. "You're going to prove it to me, right? Gonna cum all over my hand, right? That's all you're good for, anyway." His tone is condescending, making you clench around his fingers. His eyes widen, before a low chuckle slips through his lips. "You like that? Being nothing but a hole for me to use?" You whimper, hiding your face in your hands as your hips meet Jake's fingers, only for his hand to slip out and land a sharp smack against your clit. You gasp, your legs threatening to close as Jake bullies his shoulders between them, his fingers slipping back into you with practiced ease.

"You can't call, you can't text, and now you can't speak. Forgive me for thinking your brain would work for anything." He rolls his eyes, feeling his cheeks flush at his own words. The two of you had never explored this, only sweet nothings and soft praises expressed between you, even a soft slut thrown in if the night was especially raunchy.

"I'm sorry, Jake, I'm sorry." Your thighs are trembling on his shoulders, and he scoffs against your skin. "Yeah, yeah." 

He lowers his head, lips latching onto your swollen clit. His eyes flutter shut at the taste of you, his knees weak at the idea of having gone so long without it. Your fingers tangle in his hair as he curls his own upwards, the tug of yours making him moan into your wet cunt. Soft gasps of don't stop hitting his ears, and he knows he should be upset at you but it would take an entire army to pry him off you at that moment.

He feels you clamp down on his fingers, your back arching off the couch as he feels your release soak his face and hoodie, dripping down his fingers onto the carpet. He slurps at you eagerly, his fingers overstimulating you as you try to pull him away by his hair. "J-Jake, s'too much…" You trail off, not able to finish your sentence as he tongues at your clit with vigor, your thighs clamping shut around him. "One more, c'mon. One more, show me how sorry you are."

He hears you cry his name out softly, eyes looking up to see your head thrown back against the couch, chest moving up in shallow breaths. He kisses up your stomach, nipping as he moves up, his fingers never slowing their pace as he pushes your shirt up with his free hand, cool fingers palming at your chest. His fingers gently toy with your nipple, a soft groan from you as your thighs start to shake a bit harder.

"You're sorry, right?" He lifts himself to meet your face, your eyes glistening with unshed tears as you nod. "You'll call or text when you're going to be late, right, angel?" "Yes." You whisper as his lips ghost over yours. "Yes, what?" "Yes, sir." Your eyes flutter shut, and he presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth. "Open."

Your lips part with a pathetic whimper of his name, before he gracefully spits onto your tongue. His lips press to yours quickly, suppressing your moans as his fingers pick up their pace, feeling your release drip all over his hand and the couch. "I love you, okay? I just get worried." His mumbles are soft in comparison to the degrading words he'd said earlier, and you can't bring yourself to speak back as you nod against his lips. You kiss him back slowly, putting all your energy into it. "I'm sorry." "It's okay. Are you okay? Let me get a towel, okay?"

You shake your head, carding your fingers through his hair and holding him close. His fingers slip out of you, a dull ache between your thighs as he taps your knee. "Baby, c'mon." "Please." You murmur against his lips, and he feels a flustered smile taking over as he shakes his head. "Jay'll be back soon–"

"Oh, come on." Jay's voice rings through the air, and Jake looks up to see the guy covering his eyes as he runs into the kitchen. Jake's ears burn in embarrassment, only to feel you tug on the sleeve of his hoodie. "Please, Jakey." "Jay–" "You said you didn't care earlier. Why do you care now?" You pout, canting your hips against the tent in his shorts, watching his eyes flutter shut and his lip tucked between his teeth. "You're so–" "Can you guys please take it elsewhere?" Jay whines from the kitchen, and you snort. Jake sighs inwardly, awkwardly rooting around for your sweatpants before finding them just beneath him, entirely soaked.

"Fuck." He shoves the material up your legs anyway, before wrapping your legs around his waist, lifting you up carefully as Jay peeks out the kitchen. "I assume I'm in here alone for the rest of the night?" You smile at him over Jake's shoulder, "Unless you want to join."

Jake stops, looking over his shoulder at one of his oldest friends. Jay's face looks a bit conflicted, his brows furrowed but cheeks pink with embarrassment. Jake's throat clearing garners the older man's attention, a small smile on Jake's lips.

"You wouldn't say no to your best friend on his birthday, would you?"

BABEYUN © 2024. no translations, reposting or modifications are allowed. do not claim as your own. viewer discretion is advised. your media consumption is your responsibility.

[darkbluekies]

2nd year anniversary get to know the author

I have always loved the "chosen one" concept.

ever since I was little, I've written stories where the main character is special. I've always liked it when the character is chased for something only they have/do. Like, they're not just replacable or killable.

Ex. When I was 11, I wrote a story about a pair of twins that have different blood than normal people, which becomes a "super weapon" once their blood touches. By this, the main characters can't be killed, but they're hunted because they're different. Chosen.

Which is probably why I like the yandere style. The main character is chosen and special, something that can't be killed but can be imprisoned.

Some of the best book plots I have ever written are fanfictions I made during my teens

It's insane how well my brain was thinking when making up certain stories. Like me today are still in love with the plots (need reworking though, but the core of the plot is amazing) and I'm jealous of that now.

I painted my room when I was 12 to match the bedroom my character had.

I love(d) that character so much (at the time she was the main of the mains, if you get what I mean) and wanted to be her. She was one of the twins with special blood. There was something about her that just resonated deeply with me.

I feel like I can't write certain things

My notebooks are private, no one is allowed to read in them. Never will. But I have this feeling that either when I have children, they'll read my notebooks because kids are curious, or they'll be published once I'm dead.

I want to explore writing sexual scenes so that they keep up with the rest of the style in a story, if the plot asks for a sexual scene, but I don't feel like I can write them becuase they'll never feel private enough. It feels like someone is always watching whenever I try anything that commes close to sexual scenes. Like I'm doing something bad. Which is stupid, because I'm an adult lol.

I had another oc planned instead of Hedwig

I knew that i wanted one yandere to exist in a school, like the original yandere concept (for me that's yandere simulator) and created a "quiet kid" oc. Funnily enough, i actually found what I had written for him. I thought I had deleted it

But then I decided to make it a girl, because I wanted it to be more similar to the original concept<3 and that's how hedwig came about<3

There was another Edmund

While finding the quiet kid oc, I also found a king yandere oneshot I had written before writing the very first Edmund oneshot in January 2023. This is ALSO four days before writing my first oneshot for this account. This oneshot is older than the entire darkbluekies account. Older than Silas. Older than all of them!!!

Doesn't really feel like Edmund though, does it? Too nice

[bi0mass]

Thanks for the tag @gioiaalbanoart! I'm adding a chapter from a separate story called Stage One. Same ocs in an AU! (Alina meeting Eris in the lab instead of after it escapes) not finished, just something I've been doing on and off because I enjoy different scenarios. This part is still canon to Malignant though, which is why I'm adding it.

Stage One - Chapter one

Content Warnings: Slight torture/mention of torture, mention of feasting on human flesh.

Shrieks of agony rang out, echoing eerily off of the sleek, metal walls of the small containment chamber.

The little one could do nothing against the orange-suited, cruel human that was currently slicing its carmine biomass open as if it were nothing but a soft fruit. It had no control over any of its cells anymore, and wouldn’t until the weaponized aerated chemical had worn off.

All of the test subjects knew something bad was going to happen anytime that the aerosolized chemicals shot out from the small vents in each corner of the containment cells, but they had never been able to stop themselves from succumbing to its power.

None of them knew why the humans had brought them there in the first place, besides using them for their own gain to cure something that they called cancer. The lifeforms had been compared to the disease on many occasions, and the scientists thought that they could learn how to combat it by using the extraterrestrials in their research.

They had even come up with a scientific name for the creatures, calling them Endoparasitum. The term SIL, sentient infectious lifeform, was used frequently as well, but certain researchers preferred calling them abominations, a blight to mankind, and cancer incarnate, as if the creatures weren’t there by the humans’ choice to begin with.

Eris, who was watching its offspring being tortured from its own confines across the room had learned as much as it could about the strange species that had locked them away.

It was close to living out its plans for escaping, but the timing had to be just right for it to properly work. The humans still hadn’t learned of all of the things that its species could do, and it couldn’t wait to see the shock on all of their faces when it was too late for them to save themselves.

The little one, still officially unnamed by the researchers, hadn’t even been created by Eris’s own will. The researchers had collected eggs from it, and the other subjects, and grew them inside of an incubator. The process was unnatural, and resulted in all but one of them not even making it to the neonatal stage due to the researcher’s ignorance.

The one that did survive was the unlucky one. Eris couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for the runt, and knew that its entire existence would be nothing but pain and suffering if it didn’t act soon. It had only known that the youngling was its creation due to the fact that the egg batches had been separated and labeled, but its feelings about the situation wouldn’t have changed much if it had been another’s.

Several crimson tendrils slammed against the thick glass that separated Eris from the rest of the facility, keeping the humans safe for now. Its daily attempts at breaking the barrier had been futile. None of the other four adult subjects had successfully escaped either, but Eris had been formulating a plan.

It didn’t get along with any of the others, and was basically an outcast, due to reasons that the humans didn’t understand yet, but it still wasn’t going to leave them here to die when the time came to leave the place behind.

Troy tossed the steel blade to the side as he looked deep inside of the paralyzed youngling. “I know there’s something about you fucking abominations that we haven’t discovered yet, and I’m going to find it…you all seem to possess a higher intelligence than I originally thought, and I have a feeling that you all can understand me. Must be the human flesh scraps I’ve been tossing in there. Heh.”, he spoke loudly, making sure all of the extraterrestrials could hear his grating voice.

Eris felt an ounce of smugness at the fact that Troy still hadn’t figured it out yet. He hadn’t been entirely wrong; feeding them human remains had allowed them all to internally study the DNA that was brought into their biomasses.

Some used it to gain size, while others, like Eris, just converted the meat into energy, but they all stored the genetic codes in their system, waiting until the right time to use it properly. Troy never fed any of them enough for Eris to be able to even properly mimic something the size of a human, at least not yet. Gaining energy was the priority, then the mass.

Learning the behaviors of other lifeforms came as second nature to this foreign species. Humans were complex, especially their language, but it wasn’t impossible to study it from a distance, and understand what they were saying, especially after processing their varied DNA.

Eris had no idea what it was going to do once it actually left its sterile prison, or if the environment outside of the facility was even livable. The researchers had done an excellent job at not speaking about such things around the amorphous carnivores, but Eris would try to find out as much as it could before leaving in order to secure its own future.

It could hardly wait to sink its barbed tendrils into the large man’s supple flesh, and hear his screams for mercy. Soon, Troy would be nothing but a unrecognizable mess on the floor, it thought, as it menacingly stared ahead with many atramentous eyes.

---

Idk who to tag who hasn't been tagged yet, feel free to share anyways!

Xena’s Share Day

todays a free day! have something you wanna share? here’s your chance, doesn’t matter what it is!! lemme see it!

[sirhamburrger]

always forever (o. miya x manager!reader)

"you know you've got me in your pocket//you don't just have to wait around"

cw: a little bit fluffy, slice-of-life, emotionally constipated reader, clueless-not-clueless osamu, osamu channels his inner senshi

wc: 510, one-shot

a/n: this was originally a whole series i stayed up a whole night to plan, but i scrapped it before i even joined tumblr lol

"look who's early today," you call out absentmindedly from the porch of the sports hall, looking up from the itinerary on your phone. osamu flips you off, his other hand stuck firmly in his club jacket pocket as he walks over to you in large strides. 

"am i not allowed to be punctual anymore?" he grumbles. "i know 'tsumu's shenanigans've got your expectations lowered, but still."

you bite back a laugh.

"where is he, anyway?"

"snorin' away in his bed.”

"he's going to be late, isn't he?"

"he might be," osamu says uncharacteristically cheekily.

"you can go ahead and wait inside. i need some fresh air," you mumble almost imperceptibly, all your attention centred on your phone once again.

he stops and stares at you.

"how long've ya been here?"

you flush, feeling almost guilty. "don't worry about it, okay?" you try to move away from him, but he grabs onto the sleeve of your club sweater. 

"how many hours of sleep did ya get? have ya even eaten yet?" 

your silence speaks volumes as osamu sighs. "i'm always tellin' ya, ya need enough food and enough sleep, 'n ya never listen," he grumbles as he drags you, protesting, into the sports hall. "lucky for ya, i made breakfast for two." he sits the both of you down and sets a blue lunchbox on the ground in front of you. "eat."

you open it to find the most appetizing onigiri you've ever seen in your life. four large rice balls stand side by side in the plastic box, rice grains well-packed and nori neatly wrapped around each one. 

you stare at osamu in wonder. "you made these?"

"why're ya so surprised? ya already know i'm a good cook." he picks up an onigiri, prompting you to do the same. 

cautiously, you take a small bite off the top, and it's like an explosion of flavours in your mouth. the perfect saltiness of the tuna with the creaminess of the mayo, plus the crunch of fresh green onions is heaven on your tongue. "wow, that's really good," you say, once you've swallowed. 

osamu chuckles as you go in for another bite. "glad you like it."

"'m glad you've decided you'll go into food service. it means i get to eat you out of house and home."

"yeah, well… i wouldn't mind that at all."

“huh.” you sit back, smiling. you cross your legs. “you underestimate me greatly.”

“no, i think i know ya well enough.” he's sprawled across the steps now, a lazy smirk on his face. “don't tell me two years of knowin’ ya doesn’t count for anything.”

that's two years, now, in which you haven't yet mustered up the courage to tell him.

for now, though, you sit beside him on the porch of the sports hall, and enjoy the time you have with him. after all, there's always tomorrow, and there's always forever.

you get the feeling he already knows. or maybe he doesn't. but that's okay. no matter what, you're sure he'll always be waiting for you.

borders by @saradika-graphics!

haikyuu masterlist || general masterlist

© sirhamburrger 2024

[fir-fireweed]

Not sure if this has been asked before, but are you planning to start another IF after Viatica is finished? No pressure or anything if not, I’m just asking because I absolutely love your writing! Love the “Speak” option btw lol

Aww, thanks for asking! I wasn’t originally; Viatica was going to be a one and done. But I’ve had a lot of people inquiring and received a lot of encouragement, so I think I will! Plus, I may be a little addicted now. 😅

I do have an idea percolating that I’m rather excited about! But it’ll be extensive, so I’d want to learn Sugarcube for it. Chapbook isn’t bad for shorter stories like Viatica, but I want the save functionality in my next IF. Plus, now that I’ve already done one I feel more confident in my coding capabilities 😂

Thank you again for the ask!

[aninamated]

That one rain meme I keep seeing everywhere, but it's Neil and Xav 😭😂

It's been another busy week, working hard in preparation for December (I have something special planned 👀✨️🎄) But I wanted to share something here, so hope you like this quick meme art haha 😂

There are so many ways I could do this meme (Ignio trying not to burn out in the bg, Ed completely absorbing all water lol), but the silly face fits Xav so well 😂 And Neil being sad in the rain (he is canonically tired lol)

Original meme from X

https://x.com/BFrog__/status/1848856105520111976

[batmanlovesnirvana]

Chapter eight | back to black.

masterlist.

pairing : battinson x fem!oc (can be read as x reader)

words : +7k

A/N : FUNERAL DAY !! I originally planned for this chapter to be 10k words, but it felt like too much, so I decided to split it into two parts. I’ll post the next part soon after this one! As always, feel free to leave a comment—I love hearing your thoughts!

cw : Bruce being a simp, Maryam and her sisters making fun of him, I forgot what else, 18+, thriller, medical procedures, angst, mental health issues, depression, ptsd, noire, canon-typical violence, POV alternating, gritty, horror, illness, slow burn, action, fluff, mutual pining, forced proximity, crime families, crime, fighting ect… read at your own risk !

THE CAVE FEELS MORE LIKE A TOMB than a workspace, cold and silent, echoing only the low whirring of Bruce's gadgets. 

Beneath Wayne Tower, Gotham's pulse feels distant, dulled by layers of concrete and steel.

At his workbench, as usual, Bruce sits alone, bathed in the soft blue glow of multiple screens. His face is as unmoving as stone, but his eyes burn with an intensity that belies his calm. 

On the screen before him, the footage replays—not of Gotham's criminals, not of the streets he prowls, not even of Selina's contacts or his enemies. But her. Maryam.

Maryam—like the Virgin Mary, but nothing so innocent, nothing so untouchable. Maryam is fire and ice, contradiction and certainty, strength and vulnerability. She is as untamed as the storm and as steady as the mountains. 

He knows it well, and yet, even after all this time, she's still a mystery he can't solve, a puzzle with pieces he's terrified to touch.

The screen freezes on her face, capturing her in mid-sentence, her expression twisted not in anger, but in something deeper—hurt. Her brow is furrowed, and those striking hazel eyes, that impossible green-gold, blaze with a betrayal that lances through him like a blade. Her lips, poised to unleash a torrent of words she'd held back, are pressed tight in defiance. And all he can do is stare, feeling the sting of his own stupidity.

Valuable. 

He'd said it as if it were a compliment, as if it justified the risks she took, as if it somehow explained the place she'd carved out in his life of shadows and secrets. But he hadn't anticipated her reaction, the flicker of hurt that had flashed across her face, the way she'd recoiled, as though he'd reduced her to a pawn in his endless game of vengeance.

His hands, fingers tense above the controls, curl into fists as her words echo back, slicing through the silence of the Cave like a ghostly accusation.

"Just some asset to monitor, a liability to contain—like a ticking bomb?"

He could see her in his mind, fire in her eyes as she spat the words at him, her voice trembling with fury, her frame taut with unspent energy. And he'd felt that pang, deep in his chest, as if something inside him had cracked, letting in the tiniest sliver of vulnerability, one he'd locked away long ago.

He remembers the way she looked at him, her gaze searching, peeling back the layers of his resolve with an intimacy he wasn't prepared for. "I'm not just... valuable. I'm a person. I bleed, I hurt. And you... you can't just..." She'd hesitated, her voice wavering, raw with something achingly human. "You can't just treat me like I'm another cog in your mission."

She'd left him speechless. 

He, who always had an answer, who prided himself on his ability to read people, who knew Gotham's darkest corners like the back of his hand—he had nothing to say. 

Because she was right.

He'd built his life on walls, fortress upon fortress, a castle to keep everyone out, and her words had broken through like a wrecking ball.

He leans forward, his elbows resting on the table, burying his face in his hands. 

And for the first time in years, he feels the weight of guilt, sharp and foreign, pressing into him like a blade he can't remove. He'd made a vow to never let anyone in, to keep his mission above everything, and yet here she was, tearing down his carefully constructed armor with nothing but her honesty.

He's so absorbed that he doesn't notice Alfred's quiet approach, the soft click of his footsteps as he stops a few paces behind. 

After a moment, the butler clears his throat gently, breaking the silence. 

Bruce doesn't turn, but his body tenses, the mask slipping back into place, though the rawness lingers in his eyes.

"Enjoying the view, sir?" Alfred asks, his tone laced with mischief as he steps into the dim light.

Bruce clenches his jaw, not answering his guardian, the words swirling in his mind—valuable, asset, liability. He feels the weight of them now, heavier than ever.

He'd built walls so high around himself, walls no one—not even Alfred—could breach. But Maryam... she had found a way through, dismantling his defenses piece by piece, forcing him to confront things he'd long since buried. 

Things he swore to himself would never resurface.

"Looks like you upset her," Alfred says softly, "Again." he says putting his arm behind his back, inspecting the screens before him.

Bruce exhales, shifting in his chair, his annoyance barely concealed. "It's not... like that, Alfred." His voice is low, roughened by something that sounds almost like regret. "She just... she has this way of getting under my skin."

Alfred chuckled softly, moving closer and crossing his arms as he leaned against the edge of the workbench. "Under your skin? Good heavens, I'd say that's quite the understatement, Master Wayne."

Bruce didn't reply, his eyes fixed on the monitor. 

The screen showed Maryam's face frozen in a moment of hurt, her emotions laid bare. That expression gnawed at him, more than he cared to admit.

Alfred caught the flicker in his young master's gaze and raised his brows, making his point.

"Not many people would stand up to you like that."

Bruce frowned, his jaw tightening as he turned his gaze back to the screen. "It's not about standing up to me," he muttered, his voice so low it was almost a gravelly whisper.

But Alfred, as persistent as ever, pressed on. "Oh, I think it is. That kind of anger comes from caring, Bruce. Even if you didn't realize it at the time."

Bruce let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. Stubbornness radiated off him like armor. "She misunderstood."

"Did she? Or did you just say the wrong thing?"

Bruce's jaw tightened further, his teeth grinding almost audibly. "She doesn't understand what I'm trying to do."

"And whose fault is that, hm? Communication has never been your strongest suit, sir."

Bruce didn't respond, the tension in his body evident in the way his hands gripped the computer mouse and his knuckles whitened.

Alfred watched him in silence for a moment before speaking again, his tone softer now, more measured. "People aren't tools, Bruce. She said it better than I could. They're not assets to be managed or risks to be calculated. Especially not someone like her."

Bruce's gaze faltered for a moment, his mind replaying the moment on its own, no longer needing the footage. He could hear her voice, see her expression, feel the weight of her words. The hurt in her voice cut through him like glass, and her defiance still lingered in the space between them.

Was she wrong to be angry? No. If anything, she'd been right. He had reduced her to a tool in that moment, another pawn in his endless war. But Maryam wasn't a tool. She wasn't a pawn. She wasn't like anyone else.

She had her own battles, her own scars. And yet, she had stood before him, unflinching, demanding more. Demanding better.

And he had failed her.

"If you truly believe she's valuable," Alfred said quietly, "perhaps you should show her why."

Bruce finally turned slightly, his eyes meeting Alfred's briefly. The butler gave him a small, encouraging smile.

"You'll have another chance, I'm sure," Alfred continued. Then, after a pause, he added, "Didn't you tell me that she seems familiar—?"

"She's a medical examiner. Nothing else."

There it was again—his stubbornness, a trait they both shared. Or was it something else? More like fear. 

Fear from a man who claimed to have none.

The thought of letting someone in, of opening even the smallest part of himself, was too much. Too dangerous.  It wasn't practical; he told himself that over and over. There wasn't time for it.

The butler sighed, shaking his head, as though reading Bruce's thoughts. "You keep telling yourself that, sir."

Bruce didn't reply, his gaze drifting back to the darkened screen. The weight of his choices, of his words, hung heavy in the cave, like a storm cloud refusing to dissipate.

A beat of silence passed before Alfred's voice cut through, pulling him back to the present. "Shall I take it as a good sign," the butler asked, a faint smile playing on his lips, a touch of humor in his tone.

Bruce furrowed his brows, not understanding. "What?"

Alfred gestured toward him. "Your attire." he clarified, raising a brow. "Is Bruce Wayne making an actual appearance?"

Oh, that.

Bruce glanced down at himself. He was, indeed, dressed in a suit—formal and impeccable, though he had barely noticed the effort it had taken.

Blinking as if shaking off the question's sudden intrusion, he straightened, rolling his shoulders to cast off the weight of his thoughts.

"There's a public memorial for Mayor Mitchell," he explained, his voice steady but cool. "Serial killers like to follow the reaction to their crimes—Riddler might not be able to resist."

"Oh, that reminds me." Alfred reached into his waistcoat pocket, producing a folded piece of paper. "I took the liberty of doing a little work on this latest cipher..."

Bruce finally turned from the screens, the faint screeches of bats echoing from above as he focused on Alfred. The butler unfolded the paper, gesturing to the symbols.

"I'm afraid his Spanish is less than perfect, but I'm fairly certain it translates to, 'You are el rata alada.'"

Bruce took the paper, his brow furrowing as he studied it. "'Rata alada'... rat with wings?"

"It's slang for pigeon," Alfred explained. "Does that make any sense to you?"

Bruce nodded slightly, his mind already working. "Yeah... a stool pigeon."

Before the thought could deepen, Alfred's sharp eyes caught something else. "Where are your cufflinks?" he remarked, gesturing toward Bruce's bare cuffs.

Bruce muttered distractedly, "Couldn't find them," his attention still fixed on the cipher in his hands.

Alfred sighed and pulled a pair from his own pocket, stepping forward. "You can't go out like that—"

"Alfred, I don't want your cufflinks," Bruce snapped, irritation flickering in his voice as he glanced briefly at the older man.

"You have to keep up appearances," Alfred insisted, his tone calm but firm as he took Bruce's wrist and began fastening the cufflink. "You're still a Wayne, after all."

Reluctantly, Bruce let him.

As Alfred worked, Bruce noticed the monogrammed 'W' on the cufflink. He raised an eyebrow and let out a small, wry chuckle. "What about you? Are you a Wayne now?"

Alfred smiled faintly, moving to secure the other sleeve. "Your father gave them to me," he said quietly, the words heavy with unspoken emotion.

Bruce paused, the statement catching him off guard. 

He looked at Alfred, his expression softening slightly. But Alfred, ever the professional, broke the moment with a lighthearted smile. "I'm just loaning them to you—I want them back."

The billionaire nodded, a rare, fleeting warmth passing between them before he turned away, the weight of their conversation still lingering in the cave air.

The sun had barely risen, casting a dim, gray light over Gotham as Dr. Halimi adjusted the collar of her tailored black coat, her eyes scanning her reflection in the mirror. The soft morning light filtered through the small windows of her apartment, bathing the room in a quiet, muted glow.

She took a step back, her gaze moving over the sleek lines of the black coat, which hugged her figure with an austere, precise elegance. The cut was sharp, the fabric smooth, cinching at the waist and falling just below her knees—a perfect balance of timelessness and severity. She smoothed the lapel with practiced hands, tugging at the waist one last time before letting her eyes rest on the black veil pinned to her pillbox hat.

The veil draped softly over her high cheekbones, adding a quiet touch of drama to her otherwise composed appearance. It rested at a slight angle, lending her a timeless, classic look, while her caramel hair was half-up, the rest falling in soft waves down her back.

Sherine had teased her about the veil, calling it "a bit much," but to Maryam, it felt like the only choice. It was right for today—appropriate, even necessary.

Her black high heels clicked sharply against the hardwood floor as she stepped back once more. The impracticality of them was a minor sacrifice for the sake of elegance. She adjusted the pillbox hat once again, smoothing the veil, allowing herself a fleeting moment to indulge in the kind of grace she rarely had the chance to embrace.

Maryam wasn’t one to lean into vanity—not because she didn’t enjoy it, but because her line of work didn’t exactly leave room for it. But today... today was different.

Her eyes dropped to her hand, where she held her mother’s brooch—an old, delicate thing, with silver vines curling around soft pearls. She ran her thumb over its familiar curves, feeling the weight of its history, its stories, pressed into her skin.

It was a relic, a link to a past long gone, and for years it had been tucked away in a velvet box beneath her bed. Pinning it to her coat had felt like the right choice—small, subtle, and close to her heart. But now, doubt began to creep in.

Would it draw too much attention? Invite too many questions? She wasn’t sure if anyone here would recognize it—or what it would mean if they did. For a moment, she considered leaving it behind.

Just then, Sherine yawned from the hallway, adjusting her earrings in the mirror. Dressed in a sharp black dress and high heels, she looked every bit the polished, worldly journalist and archaeologist she was.

She'd flown in from Metropolis just for this, bringing with her an extra pep in her step and an almost comical disbelief at Gotham's perpetual gloom. Despite being a Gothamite herself, it seemed that Metropolis had rubbed off on her.

"Okay fine, I admit it, the veil looks amazing," Sherine's voice broke through Maryam's thoughts as she stepped further into the room, reaching out to touch the delicate fabric. 

The doctor quickly slapped her hand away, and Sherine rolled her eyes in exaggerated annoyance.

Maryam smirked, smoothing down the veil with a delicate hand. "Thanks, it's called 'honoring tradition,' Sher."

Her sister raised an eyebrow. "Right. A tradition you remembered just for today, I see. You look like you're about to attend a royal funeral."

"Close enough," Maryam retorted with a dry laugh, checking her reflection again. "Besides, with Bruce Wayne rumored to make an appearance, it might as well be. Gotham's royalty, gracing us commoners with his presence."

"Ah, yes. Mr. Wayne," Sherine replied, practically snickering. "The hermit king himself."

Maryam shot her sister a sideways glance, a smirk tugging at the corners of her otherwise serious expression. “Can you believe it? Word is, the elusive Wayne heir might actually make an appearance today,” she said, raising an arm dramatically and waving it like she was unveiling a grand banner.

Sherine scoffed. "Nepo baby royalty. It's ridiculous, really. His family practically built Gotham—and I don't mean that in a good way. He's the poster child for unchecked capitalism."

Maryam chuckled, shaking her head. "You're not wrong. The Wayne legacy is all around us, and yet he hides away like some... Gotham myth."

"Not unlike Falcone," Sherine added, raising an eyebrow. "Though between the two, I think Falcone's the scarier recluse."

The mention of Falcone brought a flicker of unease to Maryam's face. "Do you think he'll show up?" She asked, more to herself than to Sherine. The thought of Falcone coming out of his shadows was unsettling, to say the least.

"Not a chance," Sherine dismissed with a wave of her hand. "That man's probably hiding under a dozen layers of security and shadows."

"Still, I wouldn't put it past him. He's got his hands in everything in this city."

"Not more reclusive than Bruce Wayne, though," Sherine snorted, reaching for her clutch. "At least Falcone actually does something—however terrible it is."

"If he shows up with his son Vittorio, I swear to God, I'll—" Maryam began, spritzing a hint of her favorite perfume on her wrists.

"You will do absolutely nothing," Sherine cut in, standing beside her and fussing with her hair in the mirror, her vibrant red waves catching the muted morning light. "You don't want to start anything, especially today. It's the mayor's funeral, for crying out loud."

"Oh, I'm serious, Sherine. I went out as the Wraith just two nights ago and yesterday as a civilian, and still nothing. Nothing! If Vittorio even glances in Alma's direction, they're going to find out exactly what I'm capable of," Maryam muttered, her eyes flashing with a hint of defiance as she twisted off the cap of her perfume.

Sherine raised an eyebrow. "And that's exactly why I'm reminding you to keep it together. This isn't some Gotham street brawl—it's a funeral. Dignity, remember?"

Maryam scoffed, setting the perfume bottle back on her dresser. "Falcone is the last person who deserves any respect. And his son? The only thing he got from his father is that insufferable sense of entitlement."

Sherine just sighed, too tired to argue with her stubborn sister. "You're impossible," she muttered, shaking her head.

Maryam responded with a faint, tight smile, but her eyes flickered back to the brooch now sitting quietly on her dresser.

She picked it up, her thumb tracing the delicate silver vines and tiny pearls. It felt almost too precious for a day like this—too bold, too revealing of a heritage she'd rather keep hidden.

Sherine noticed her hesitation. "Are you really going to wear that?" she asked, softening her tone, then quickly added with a grin, "Actually, I hope you do."

"I don't know," Maryam murmured, uncertain.

"Oh, for heaven's sake. Just wear the damn brooch," Sherine said with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. "No one here is going to recognize it. The average Gothamite probably thinks the Romanovs are a brand of vodka."

"Not everyone's that ignorant of history," Maryam replied with a hint of amusement.

Sherine smirked. "Maybe not, but Gotham has its own blind spots. Who's really going to scrutinize your jewelry today?"

Maryam took a deep breath, her fingers hovering over the brooch before slipping it back into its velvet box, closing the lid firmly. "I just... don't want any unnecessary attention."

Sherine shrugged, looking Maryam over. "Fine. But you're still the most elegant one there, veil and all. That coat is practically regal."

Maryam's gaze lingered on the box, feeling the familiar tug of unease. She'd nearly decided to leave it behind... but, almost on instinct, she pinned the brooch to her coat, the weight of it settling against her heart.

"Yeah, fuck it," she said with a finality, sliding her clutch under her arm."So, are you ready? We need to pick up Aunt Meysa and Alma before they complain that we left them to fend for themselves."

"Oh, trust me," Sherine replied, laughing as she slipped on her coat. "Aunt Meysa is probably lecturing Alma as we speak. You know Alma's in hiding mode—poor thing can't even escape her law books without Aunt Meysa giving her a full interrogation."

Maryam smiled knowingly. "It's probably good for Alma. Keeps her grounded."

As they made their way out of the apartment, Maryam's heels clicked against the floor with a steady rhythm, each step seeming to amplify her resolve. 

Sherine chattered beside her as they descended the stairs and headed to Maryam's car, parked just down the block. The streets were already buzzing with Gotham's peculiar mix of early risers and the last stragglers of the night.

Sliding into the driver's seat, Maryam took a deep breath, her fingers gripping the steering wheel. Her sister glanced over, reading her sister's tension.

"Hey, it's just a funeral," Sherine said, trying to sound lighthearted.

"It's Gotham," Maryam corrected, a hint of grim humor in her voice. "Funerals here are never just funerals."

Sherine laughed. "Alright, fair. But come on, it's the mayor's funeral, not some mob boss's funeral. How bad could it be?"

Maryam shot her a look that clearly said, You should know better by now.

As they drove, Sherine’s phone buzzed incessantly, its ringing filling the otherwise quiet car.

The name "C" flashed on the screen, and Maryam caught the subtle twitch of her sister’s eye— the same one that always appeared when this particular contact reached out. The phone rang again, and Maryam couldn’t help but glance at her sister, who tried to hide the faint blush creeping up her neck.

They exchanged a quick glance, and both reached for the phone. Sherine, always quick, made a grab for it, but Maryam, with a mischievous grin, was quicker.

She snatched the phone away before Sherine had a chance to react.

"Ooooh, who is this, dear sister?" Maryam teased, unlocking the phone and scrolling through the messages. "Hmm? Someone special?"

"Nobody!" Sherine snapped, her voice tight as she stretched for the phone, but Maryam held it out of reach, enjoying her sister’s discomfort.

Maryam clicked on the contact photo, revealing a handsome man with black glasses, a shy smile, and messy black curls that fell just above his forehead. It looked like one of those professional photos you’d put on a company badge.

"Ooh, very cute. Very your style. Very glasses, very nerdy... very American," Maryam mocked playfully.

Sherine blushed deeply, her grip tightening on the steering wheel. "Khalas, Maryam! We’re gonna have an accident!" she scolded, her voice sharp as she tried once again to reach for the phone, but Maryam pulled it away.

Maryam continued scrolling, her fingers dancing across the screen. "Come on, tell me his name, and I’ll stop."

Sherine sighed in defeat. "Okay, fine! Clark, his name is Clark!"

Maryam raised an eyebrow, clicking her tongue. "Very American," she said with a grin. Sherine’s face reddened further, and her voice hardened as she reached for the phone again.

"Maryam."

Maryam sighed, finally giving in and tossing the phone into Sherine’s lap. The car remained perfectly still— Maryam was too precise behind the wheel for anything to disrupt their calm drive. The silence lingered, but Maryam wasn’t quite ready to let it settle just yet.

With a small smirk on her lips, Maryam reached for the radio, her red nails glittering as they stopped at a red light. She glanced at her sister, then at the road, before breaking the silence.

"So?" she asked, her voice laced with curiosity and mischief.

Sherine let out a long sigh, her voice softening as she glanced at the passing streets. "Ugh, yes, he's very American. From Kansas, farmer’s son and all that," she muttered, her tone losing some of its usual edge. "And... yeah, he's very attractive, to put it simply. Clark Joseph Kent. That's his name. He works at the Daily Planet as a journalist with me."

As Sherine spoke, her voice steadied, but Maryam could hear the quiet vulnerability slipping through her words. Sherine always said a person's full name when she was crushing hard on them.

"We're just friends, okay?" Sherine added, biting her nails nervously as she stole a glance at the road. "I mean, what am I even saying? Just colleagues. He's... he's interested in someone else." Her gaze drifted out the window, and Maryam caught the subtle clench of her sister's jaw, the silent struggle to hold back her feelings. "I met him three months ago and made him visit our place of work per Perry's order. That's all there is to know. We work together, and that's it." It was almost as if she were trying to convince herself.

Maryam raised an eyebrow, her smirk never wavering. She knew her sister too well. Sherine could pretend she didn’t care, but Maryam could see the truth beneath the layers of nonchalance.

But she also knew when to stay silent and let her sister talk in her own time.

"You better not tell anyone about him," Sherine said quietly, her voice carrying a hint of caution.

Maryam turned the wheel to the left, steering them through a turn, and made the motion of zipping her mouth with one hand. "Your secret’s safe with me," she teased, her smirk still in place.

They pulled up in front of Aunt Meysa's building, where both Aunt Meysa and Aunt Jamila were already waiting at the curb. 

Aunt Meysa, the picture of elegance, stood tall in a somber black dress, her usual veil draped gracefully over her greying hair. She raised an eyebrow, her usual approving expression settling on her face.

"Masha'Allah," she said with a nod, her eyes scanning their outfits. "You both look presentable, thank goodness."

Maryam smirked, fighting back a laugh. "Shokran, Amti Meysa."

Beside her, Aunt Jamila let out a low chuckle, her lips pulling into a wry smile as she cast Maryam and Sherine a quick, assessing look. "Almost like they didn't grow up running around in dusty alleys."

Maryam only hummed in response, stepping forward to kiss the cheeks of her two aunts in turn.

Just then, Aunt Meysa cast a sharp look back toward the building entrance. "Alma's coming down," she announced, a hint of exasperation in her tone. Her gaze flicked to Maryam. "You know she's ignoring you, right?"

"Isn't she always?" Maryam replied, shrugging lightly.

Sure enough, Alma appeared in the doorway moments later. She wore a simple black dress paired with an elegant coat and high-heeled boots. Her auburn hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail, and her gaze remained downcast, deliberately avoiding her sisters.

"Ah, finally!" Aunt Jamila clapped her hands, her tone hovering between amusement and reproach.

Sherine leaned out of the car window with a grin. "Ready to face the lions, Alma?" she teased as Alma climbed into the backseat, her expression resigned.

Alma rolled her eyes, folding her arms tightly. "Like I had much of a choice," she muttered, shooting Aunt Meysa a half-hearted glare.

Aunt Meysa arched an eyebrow, her voice thick with her Arab accent. "I swear to God, girls, I don’t want any problems. I’m warning you!"

When they finally pulled up in front of Gotham’s City Hall, the scene outside was pure chaos. The streets were teeming with people, their chants rising in the air—"No more lies." Banners with the Riddler's ominous symbols waved above the crowd like a dark omen.

"Shouf," Aunt Meysa gestured toward the crowd, her head tilting slightly, eyes narrowing in disbelief. "What is this?" she demanded, clutching her veil tightly as she observed the scene with sharp, calculating eyes.

No one responded right away. The atmosphere was heavy with tension as they all stared out at the gathering, unsure of what they were witnessing.

Suddenly, a cop tapped on the glass, pulling Maryam from her thoughts. She snapped to attention, rolling the window down with a slight hesitation.

"Hello, names please," the officer said, his tone bordering on a command as he looked at them expectantly.

"Ben Halimi, sir," Aunt Jamila replied smoothly, handing Maryam an envelope with the invitations.

Maryam passed the envelope to the officer, who took it and quickly skimmed the contents. "Alright," he said with a nod, pointing toward a nearby parking lot. "This way, please."

As they parked, the air felt thick with humidity, the wet pavement reflecting the city’s lights. The sound of heels clicking against the slick ground echoed through the otherwise quiet street. Aunt Meysa led the way, her steps measured and dignified, her head held high as always. Sherine, Maryam, and Alma followed closely behind, the weight of the evening settling over them in the form of a quiet procession.

"Why didn't we get the same service?" Aunt Meysa asked, casting a critical glance at the sleek, elegant cars pulling up nearby.

"Because we're peasants, Amti," Maryam quipped without missing a beat, her tone dry and laced with humor.

Aunt Jamila laughed, her eyes sparkling. "Maryam, you look like royalty. We should've had the same treatment," she teased.

Maryam gave a mock grimace, her lips curling into a wry smile. "Yes, of course. And maybe we should've brought our butler too, right?" she retorted, which earned her an exaggerated eye roll from her aunt.

As they approached the entrance to City Hall, Maryam’s eyes scanned the crowd, noting the sea of black suits and dresses, the low hum of conversation, and the occasional camera flash from the paparazzi. Her gaze landed on Warda and her husband, Ryan, standing near the grand staircase. They were mostly overlooked by the flashing cameras, an odd relief in the sea of attention.

Warda stood with her hands gently resting over her growing belly, radiant even in mourning attire. Ryan hovered close beside her, one hand protectively on her back, his gaze sharp as he scanned the bustling crowd.

Aunt Jamila waved at them, her expression softening into something warm and affectionate. She shuffled over to greet them while other attendees glanced their way. Sherine offered those onlookers an awkward smile, but Maryam merely raised a brow, daring anyone to say something.

"Finally! We've been waiting for you. Rania's been fussing—"

"We know," Alma interrupted, her tone curt as she slipped her hands into her coat for warmth. "We saw the messages in the group chat."

"Feeling alright?" Maryam asked Warda, her instinct as a doctor surfacing as she nodded toward her sister's rounded belly.

Warda smiled gently. "Just fine. Ryan's the one fussing over me, though."

Ryan shook his head with an amused smirk, but Maryam chuckled, looping her arm through her sister's. "That's what husbands are for."

In Gotham, even a funeral felt like a performance, and Maryam couldn't help but wonder what kind of show was waiting for them inside.

She didn't have to wonder for long.

Not far from them, Carmine Falcone emerged from a sleek black car, flanked by his usual bodyguards. 

He extended a hand to help a striking woman out—a companion for the day, no doubt. Behind them, his son, Vittorio, followed, phone pressed to his ear, his sharp gaze scanning the crowd with calculated precision. Maryam heard Alma shift nervously behind her.

"Is that—" Ryan started, narrowing his eyes.

"The Falcones," Maryam muttered, an unexpected flare of anger tightening her jaw.

"No, I meant Bruce Wayne," Ryan clarified.

"Oh my god, yes!" Warda whispered, her eyes lighting up with excitement.

"He's even more handsome in person," Aunt Jamila added, squinting like she was assessing a priceless possession.

"Look, Maryam! Go talk to him!" she urged, her voice practically bubbling over with enthusiasm.

"Don't be ridiculous, Amti," Warda replied in Arabic, trying to suppress a laugh.

But Maryam wasn't paying attention. She hardly noticed the paparazzi shouting for Wayne or her family's chatter, because at that moment, Vittorio's eyes locked with Alma's. Alma immediately turned her head, a blush creeping up her cheeks, while his jaw tightened visibly.

Sherine squeezed Maryam's arm. "Mar—"

"Don't you dare, Maryam! You'll embarrass me!" Alma hissed, but her words went ignored.

Maryam shook off her sister's grip, her focus narrowing as she strode confidently toward the Falcones. Aunt Meysa's voice trailed after her, sharp with disapproval. "Where is she going? We're supposed to go inside!"

But Maryam didn't stop. Every step she took drew attention. As she closed the distance to Gotham's notorious crime family, one of Falcone's security guards stepped in her way.

"Ma'am, what do you think you're doing?" he asked, his tone cold and dismissive.

Maryam pointed at Vittorio, her eyes burning with intent. "I need to speak to him."

Carmine's dark-rimmed glasses gleamed in the dim light as he turned his attention to her. His gaze, a mixture of curiosity and quiet menace, lingered on her before he spoke, his voice a low rumble. "And who might you be?"

Without flinching, she met his stare, her voice steady. "You should ask your son."

Vittorio said nothing, his gaze dropping away as he clenched his jaw and slid his phone into his waistcoat pocket. But Carmine didn't wait for an explanation. His sharp eyes flicked over Maryam's shoulder, settling on her family. His gaze lingered on Alma, and a knowing smirk tugged at his lips.

"They weren't lying when they said you girls were a sight to see. Beautiful," he murmured, his tone as smooth as it was unsettling.

A shudder rippled through Maryam, her unease deepening.

Then, from behind him, came a laugh—loud, brash, and unmistakably familiar.

Oz Cobblepot. Of course.

The sudden jolt of recognition struck Maryam. Her mouth opened, but no words came out. 

What did he mean by that? The way he spoke, like he already knew them—knew her—made her uneasy. Before she could find her voice, Carmine slipped his hand under her arm, his grip surprisingly gentle, almost as if she were fragile porcelain.

"Take a walk with us," he said, guiding her forward.

Still in a daze, Maryam let herself be led, her feet moving almost automatically as they began climbing the stairs. 

She glanced back, catching the confused, wary looks of her family. Aunt Jamila's eyes narrowed, a mix of concern and indignation flashing in them. Alma, on the other hand, seemed like she wanted to vanish into the ground. Aunt Meysa's stern expression softened, her lips pressing into a tight line, as if she wanted to call Maryam back but couldn't bring herself to.

As they ascended, Maryam's heart pounded in her chest, her mind racing with questions she couldn't yet voice.

Bruce gripped the steering wheel, his gaze narrowing as he scanned the city hall ahead. 

The city hall loomed ahead, its steps swarming with mourners and a sea of makeshift memorials. Flowers, candles, and angry placards blurred together in the drizzle, the wet pavement reflecting glints of firelight and the oppressive gray sky.

People were chanting "no more lies" people who at first thought were mourners but needed people who were protesting.

Among them , a group of hooded men caught his eye, their scrawled question-mark signs mimicking the Riddler's mark. 

Always lurking, he thought grimly.

Not far from him, another protestor waved a sign reading "Who Else Dies for Gotham's Lies?"

His blood chilled at the sight.

The honk of a traffic cop jarred him back to the present.

He avance with his car in the traffic before he could even down his window, an officer was already double-tooking through it when he recognized Bruce, his stoic professionalism cracking into something close to reverence. "MR Wayne over here!" he pointed to the place where valets were waiting down the stairs of the city hall the cop waved him forward.

The valet opened his door, and Bruce stepped out, adjusting the cuffs of his tailored suit. The murmurs started immediately.

"Is that the Bruce Wayne?"

"Bruce Wayne's here!"

The paparazzi swarmed, shouting over each other as camera flashes exploded around him. Bruce reached for his wallet, barely paying attention.

Then he saw them.

Carmine Falcone stepped out of a sleek black car, his phalanx of bodyguards forming a protective shield around him. 

He moved with a calm, deliberate arrogance, the kind that only a man like Falcone could carry off. Bruce's eyes narrowed as he watched him reach out a hand to help someone step out of the car.

A slender leg, clad in a high-heeled boot, emerged first. Bruce's stomach tightened. The boots were strikingly similar to the ones Annika and Selina favored in the club. The woman followed, her face obscured by a hat, her movements poised and deliberate. For a moment, Bruce's mind reeled. Was that Selina?

But before he could process further, his attention snapped to something—or someone—else.

Maryam Ben Halimi.

The haunting of his dreams. 

Her face appeared in his line of sight, pulling his focus away from the unfolding scene. He recognized immediately despite her elegant veiled pillow box hat. She stood a short distance away, surrounded by a cluster of women—a pregnant woman, likely her sister, stood closest to her, her husband at her side. Maryam's hand rested gently on the woman's arm as she spoke, her expression soft but firm.

Bruce's hand, mid-motion to hand cash to the valet, faltered. 

The noise of the crowd, the paparazzi's shouts—it all faded into a dull hum. 

All he could see was her.

Even in the somber atmosphere of a funeral, she looked radiant. Her dark attire was elegant, almost regal-- like royalty, a stark contrast to the gritty chaos around them. 

For a fleeting moment, Bruce forgot why he was here. 

He forgot everything except the way she held herself—graceful, poised, utterly captivating.

Then she moved.

Bruce's brows furrowed as he watched Maryam break away from her family, her stride purposeful, graceful. She was heading straight toward Falcone.

What is she doing?

His pulse quickened as Carmine turned, his sharp eyes narrowing with interest as Maryam approached. The woman on his arm seemed momentarily forgotten.After talking for a few minutes, Carmine slipped his arm under Maryam's, his demeanor shifting to one of calculated charm as he began leading her up the steps to City Hall.

Bruce's stomach dropped.

No. No, no, no.

Before he could think, his body moved on instinct. 

The crowd was thick, a crush of mourners, reporters, and onlookers. Cameras flashed, and the paparazzi's voices rose in a cacophony around him, but he heard none of it. His eyes were locked on Maryam and Falcone, his focus razor-sharp.

He couldn't call out to her. No, that wasn't an option. She didn't know him—not as Bruce Wayne. To her, he was a stranger, a man with no place in her life.

And yet, none of that mattered. The only thing driving him forward was the unshakable instinct to pull her away from that man, to shield her from whatever danger lurked behind Falcone's veneer of charm.

As he closed the distance, the bottleneck near the entrance to city hall became a wall of bodies. Falcone's security detail fanned out, forming a human barricade between the mob boss and the growing crowd.

Bruce's jaw tightened, his frustration mounting as he tried to maneuver closer. Two bodyguards stepped into his path, their imposing forms blocking his view. His gaze darted past them, landing squarely on Maryam.

She turned then, her veil shifting slightly as her hazel eyes caught his. Bruce felt a jolt run through him. Her gaze met his directly—steady, searching. She took a shallow breath, her eyes narrowing as though trying to place him. Recognition? No, it couldn't be. She didn't know him. Not like this.

Still, he couldn't look away. 

It was as though the crowd, the noise, the chaos around them all melted into nothing. She held his gaze, her expression unreadable, while he stared back, caught in the moment.

It was only when one of the bodyguards slammed a hand against his chest that he snapped back to reality.

"Hey, hey—give us some space here, slick," the man growled, shoving Bruce back a step.

Bruce bristled, his frustration threatening to boil over. His piercing glare bore into the man as he fought the urge to push back harder.

The commotion finally drew Falcone's attention. The crime boss paused on the steps, his grip still resting lightly but possessively on Maryam's arm. He turned toward the scene, his eyes glinting with amusement as his thin lips curled into a smirk.

"Watch it, fellas—you've got the prince of the city there!" Falcone's drawl was smooth, mocking, every word dipped in condescension.

The bodyguards hesitated, exchanging glances before loosening their grip slightly at Falcone's signal.

Bruce stood rooted to the spot, his gaze fixed on Maryam as if the sheer force of it could dissolve the distance between them. For a moment, something flickered in her eyes—uncertainty, hesitation, or perhaps a fleeting recognition that vanished as quickly as it came. He didn't know, couldn't know. 

But it pierced him all the same, an ache he wasn't prepared for.

The woman with the hat and the heels that had first caught his attention—the ones so similar to Selina's—turned as well, revealing not Selina, but Carla, the girl from the club. 

The realization barely registered; his focus was elsewhere.

"Some event," Falcone drawled, stepping forward with a smug grin. "Brought out the one guy in Gotham more reclusive than me. To what do we owe the honor, Mr. Wayne?"

Bruce didn't answer. He couldn't tear his eyes away from Maryam. She stood beside Falcone, her posture stiff, her body tense, but her expression now unreadable. If she was afraid, she didn't show it. Instead, her composure was as calculated as a blade—poised, sharp, and ready.

Falcone noticed. He followed Bruce's gaze back to Maryam, his grin deepening. Then, in a move so deliberate it felt like a taunt, he slid an arm around her waist.

The effect was instant. Maryam's shoulders tightened, and though she didn't flinch, the discomfort was plain in the set of her jaw. Bruce's fists clenched at his sides, a surge of anger coursing through him. He stepped forward again, but the bodyguards moved in, one of them shoving him back with a heavy hand.

"Easy there, Wayne," Falcone said, raising an eyebrow, his voice laced with mockery. "We're just having a little chat." He turned back to Maryam, his expression almost playful. "Do you two know each other?"

Maryam's hesitation was barely perceptible, a single heartbeat of silence before she answered. "No," she said, her voice steady but tight. She looked away from Bruce, breaking the connection between their gazes. "He's a total stranger."

The words landed like a blow. Bruce's chest tightened. But weren't they true? She didn't know him—not here, not like this. Outside of the cowl, he was nothing to her. A stranger. He reminded himself that he couldn't fault her for that.

And yet, the sting remained.

But Bruce didn't falter. His gaze stayed locked on her, even as she avoided his. The tension between him and Falcone thickened, an unspoken challenge simmering just beneath the surface.

"Let her go," Bruce said quietly, his voice low and even, each word a deliberate act of defiance.

Falcone's smirk deepened. His hand on Maryam's waist tightened ever so slightly, a gesture so subtle it might have gone unnoticed. But not by Bruce.

"Why don't you run along, Wayne?" another voice interjected, this time Vittorio's, dripping with false civility. "This is family business."

Bruce ignored him, his eyes narrowing at Falcone. "I thought your father never left the Shoreline," he said coldly, his tone cutting. "Aren't you afraid someone'll take a shot at you?"

Falcone's smirk didn't waver, but his eyes darkened. "You mean now that your father isn't around?" He turned slightly, calling over his shoulder. "Oz, you know Bruce Wayne?"

A gravelly voice answered, "Whoa—s'that right?" Oswald Cobblepot emerged from the shadows, his calculating gaze sweeping over Bruce from head to toe. He looked unimpressed, but the sharp gleam in his eyes betrayed him.

Falcone chuckled, turning his attention back to Bruce. "His father saved my life, you know. I always tell the story to Vittorio here." He clapped a hand on his son's shoulder, but Vittorio didn't react, his cold gaze fixed on Bruce as he dragged on a cigarette.

Falcone tapped his chest. "Took a bullet right here. Couldn't go to a hospital, so we showed up on Dr. Wayne's doorstep. Operated on me right there on the dining room table. Kid here saw the whole thing." His grin widened. "You don't think that meant something?"

Bruce's jaw clenched. He wanted to fire back, but Maryam's voice cut through the tension.

"I should probably go," she said, her voice steady but edged with tension. She stepped away from the group with a fluid grace that bordered on defiance, her grip tightening around her clutch. Falcone didn't even acknowledge her departure, his attention still fixed on Bruce.

Her heels clicked sharply against the pavement as she moved, the sound cutting through the charged air. For a brief moment, she turned her head back toward him, a flicker of something in her eyes—uncertainty, or perhaps contemplation. Her brow furrowed, a brief pause in her otherwise composed demeanor, as though something was weighing heavily on her mind.

Then, with a final, decisive glance, she hurried into City Hall, blending into the crowd, her figure swallowed up by the throng of people.

Bruce's eyes followed her until she disappeared inside. 

Then, finally, he spoke. "It meant he took the Hippocratic Oath."

Falcone's laughter was sharp and derisive. "Hippocratic Oath, huh? That's good."

Vittorio, his silence thick as always, flicked his cigarette toward Bruce's shoes, a subtle yet pointed gesture. Bruce didn't so much as blink.

"'Scuse me," he muttered, brushing past them without a second glance.

His focus was singular now.

Maryam.

previous chapter | next

Oooooop 👀👀

I know this might be a bit cringey, but I can’t help myself—I just love doing it! So, here’s what I envisioned for Maryam’s outfit in this chapter :)) :

[ Translation ]

Amti : aunt.

Khalas : stop.

[fullofwoe5321]

Delulu time of the day is back!! The discussion topic is about our infamous Hyde! LOL

I've already said here that I really think there's something in the air about the Hyde -I don't know if it's the correct word but there you go- likes Wednesday somehow. There are some fragments that made me realize that and then I'm going to share. BUT ONCE AGAIN: THIS IS A THEORY!!!!!!! MY OPINION AND ANALYSIS THROUGHOUT THE SHOW.

I guess up to the episode 3, Tyler didn't remember or couldn't handle the Hyde properly. So my guesses are based until episode 3 but I'll use some examples from other episodes.

1- The hyde SAVED Wednesday from the attack of Rowan. Tyler didn't even remember what had happened the night before. He was in the woods stalking his father to check things up or hide eventual proofs from the monster's attack. SO that confirms that Laurel didn't order him to kill Rowan. He made Wednesday tell him exatcly what happenned and he looked surprised. I don't believe he was lying even though he was nervous. So the Hyde acted instinctively in order to protect Wednesday? Why? Once Tyler didn't know who Wednesday was for Laurel's plan.

2- Then Wednesday went to an unsafe place, according to Tyler, and found a man who threatened her. She had a vision and she thought it was the man, BUT NO!!!! The hyde was stalking her and HE DIDN'T ATTACK HER!! in fact he has a frightened and soft stare ? The monster went there to check if she was okay? hmmmmmmm He probably saw her laid on the floor and waited to her wake up to leave? At night, THE SAME MAN WHO THREATENED WEDNESDAY was the his victim. The monster killed another man who threatened Wednesday. HMMMMMMMMMMMMM And Tyler was clever enough to use this man to collect a body part for Laurel so she won't suspect anything about Wednesday.

3 -I keep telling you this BUT I DO BELIEVE that line ' I knew there was a reason I liked you' was said by the Hyde and not Tyler. If we analyse better, we can see when Wednesday confronted him about Xavier's assault, he got pissed and maybe that triggered the Hyde in order to manipulate the situation one more time. I mean Tyler has anger issues and it benefits the Hyde emergence. When he sits, he is already different! His stare is deep and dark. He also has seductive stare! I'm sorry but Tyler has puppy eye! I KNOW THE DIFFERENCE! LOL and the most important: his voice was snarky and husky. He has a low tone. It was not Tyler!!! (There will be a video for you to see what I'm talking about).

4 - THE DATE! Ok, since episode 4, the Hyde was more present. At the beginning of their perfect date, Tyler was there. BUT when he decided to confess his feelings and they had that small banter, it was not Tyler. THE EYES WERE DIFFERENT! Whenever the Hyde is out, Tyler has a deep and dark stare. I don't how to explain exactly, but there is a sort of dark fog in his eyes. I know that Tyler wanted to kiss Wednesday, but why does the Hyde have to come out as well? Maybe Tyler needed some confidence from the Hyde to try something else with Wednesday? Probably! And maybe Wednesday wanted to kiss him because she saw or/and felt something different through the darkness of his eyes? Definitely! And he only shifted to Tyler again when they were interrupted by his father!!! So yes, the Hyde wanted to kiss her as well.

5- With the help of my friend @weylerforever, we found out that in the scene of 'Kind of a déjà vu thing we got going on, huh?' we have the same voice and stare from episode 4. THE SAME! Even the shadow on his face is the same! (check the video below).

Well, what I'm trying to say that MAYBE, IN MY OPINION, MY PERSONAL BELIEF, is that the Hyde KNEW since the beginning about their connection. THAT explains why he protected and saved Wednesday from Rowan and never attacked when he had the opportunity (the original Pilgrim House). I mean she was a potential prey to him when he attacked Rowan. It would have had more sense if he had attacked her than had saved her. BUT HE CHOSE TO PROTECT HER ?? WHY?? And no, it was not because of Laurel's plan because he didn't know about it! He was about to head her to the train station some minutes ago. He would have helped her to escape for sure.

I'm not talking about a romantic connection here because I don't want to be biased LOL I'm serious! I don't want to lead to this discussion because I don't even know if the Hyde might have good feelings. I believe that maybe the Hyde sees her as a potential Master!!!???? Because I don't know how to explain that behaviour as well.

Well the only person (?) who can answer this question is the Hyde himself. And I hope we had scenes with him on S2.

The chances of my theory are correct are 0, but it's been on my mind for a while. I need to get it off my chest! So tell me, Cockroaches.... Am I delulu and I need some break from my Weyler obssession? Or does it make sense to you?

[goodluckdetective]

Okay I should try to tell this story and I think the best way to do it is from my DM’s perspective:

So my DM has a plan for the session: a murder mystery! The set up is simple enough: all the mystery genre novels have merged into an inescapable manor with only their protagonists still remaining. In said manor, to keep from thinking about the existential dread, they are throwing a masked ball celebrating the one and only original detective: Auguste Dupin.

The mystery from what I can tell, is planned as follows: we arrive at the ball. Dupin, who has already been poisoned by a long acting poison, introduces himself, the ball, and the setting, before dropping dead. We then have to solve a murder mystery and lore is established about what the endgame of these dissolving worlds is. Everyone wins.

Enter Hamlet, House, MD, and Inuyasha (Katniss was sick).

So we’re all talking to Dupin who is increasingly anxious and sweaty (poison symptoms) about the situation and I am trying to propose we make a mystery to solve so another portal will open, letting all the detectives out. Dupin is trying to explain to me that won’t work. Me, deciding he’s spent too much time in this manor to think clearly, decides “if we show him there’s a way out of here for us, maybe he’ll calm down a bit and help us with a plan for everyone else!”

Because we do have a way out of there: our necklace which allows us to teleport back to stories we’ve already been to and know the name of. It’s not a solution for the detectives issue, as shoving every detective novel protagonist into another story might cause that story to destabilize, but we aren’t trapped there.

So, in my wisdom, I reach forward making sure the party is holding onto me, grab the shoulder of Mr. Dupin and say “Pride and Prejudice and Zombies.”

And I abduct the murder victim who is currently actively being murdered from the whole UNIVERSE the crime scene is in and plopped his poisoned ass into Pride and Prejudice and Zombies.

So yeah. My DM had to get up and call a break after that to regroup how the hell she was going to solve that problem.

(We got back on track and Dupin died as planned and we found the culprit. This is important to know as a bonus for two reasons: 1. Dora the explorer was in on the murder plot and tried to stab Beowulf and I, entered the room where Sherlock Holmes was on his last legs in a fight with House MD, shouted “solve this!” And Eldritch blasted him to death in one shot. So enjoy those mental images)

I will tell the full story later but today in D&D I broke the DM.

[bumblewarden]

AWAKENING REMARKS

Warden-Commander Tabris

The Warden deserves voice lines too, so i scribbled down some quick Awakening remarks for Novhen plus a smattering of VO comments to go along with a handful of them :3

I'm still envisioning him as player character so no lines for taking him in or out of the party, but i tried to get most of the location barks

= 🌙 =

[Someone fails to pick a lock]

Need a hand?

[Entering Avvar Crypt]

You can almost smell the Deep Roads from here. VO Comment: Thinking aloud

[Entering City of Amaranthine]

I should meet the city's hahren once this Thaw Hunt's over with.

[Entering Amaranthine Market]

Let me know if you see anything you want. VO Comment: Said as an announcement to the party

[First encounter with the Children]

That was new. VO Comment: Flatly, stunned

[Second encounter with the Children]

(Sigh) S'pose I gotta write a report to Weisshaupt about those.

[On the bridge after the first tower in Drake's Fall]

Never let it be said these darkspawn didn't have a flair for the dramatic. VO Comment: Exasperated. He would much prefer if they did not

= 🌙 =

[On the bridge]

Oh, a gaping hole into the Deep Roads. That'll be fun to clean up. VO Comment: Sarcastic

[View of Kal'Hirol]

I didn't expect for one of the lost thaigs to be so near the surface. / Let's get on then. We've a tide to push back against.

[Upon finding secret passage in Kal'Hirol]

Ran through more than my fair share of secrets tunnels when I was a kid. Good times. VO Comment: Nostalgic

[Upon finding lyrium ghosts]

Lyrium ghosts. Probably won't share anything helpful to our current fight but still worth the listen.

[Inside Kal'Hirol - Main Hall]

I'm not personally a fan of meat floors, but to each their own. VO Comment: Pushing down his disgust

[Upon finding lyrium ghosts]

Lyrium ghosts. Probably won't share anything helpful to our current fight but still worth the listen.

[Nearing large lyrium container in Kal'Hirol - Trade Quarter]

Is that lyrium at a stage safe for elves to touch? VO Comment: Trying to figure out if he can take any back to the keep

[In long hallway in Kal'Hirol - Lower Reaches]

There's a fine line between building suspense and just tedious. VO Comment: Annoyed

[Near broodmother pit]

Well, it's not like I was gonna get a good night's sleep anyway.

= 🌙 =

[Entering the Wending Wood, upon seeing wrecked caravan]

Can't wait to meet whoever they pissed off. VO Comment: Sarcastic

[At camp]

This doesn't look right. Who just dumps a pile of weapons all in one corner like that? / This is a set up if I've ever seen one. Keep on your toes.

[At overlook near the camp]

The woods aren't nearly so bad once everything stops trying to kill you for ten seconds.

[At burial pit]

The work of darkspawn, looks like. We'll have to set up a pyre once we're done here.

[At the Silverite Mine, upon seeing the ballista]

Those darkspawn are posed perfectly for the ballista to take them out with that statue, and it's not even my naming day. VO Comment: Thoughtful. Last part said with a small laugh

= 🌙 =

[Entering the Blackmarsh]

Ach! The muck here is already trying to swallow my cane whole.

[Past the old sign]

(Shudders) Farkakte fucking Veil. VO Comment: Angrily, under his breath

[Nearing dragon bone head]

Beautiful skull, but where's the rest of it?

[Near a Veil tear]

I've seen thin spots in the Veil before, but this is something else.

[Near ruined house]

Do you s'pose there's anything worth looting still in there?

[First entering the Blackmarsh Undying]

Is it too much to hope that this "Mother" they've been namedropping isn't an awakened broodmother?

[On the path to the village in The Blackmarsh Undying]

Last time I was awake in the Fade I was able to shapeshift… Probably not a good idea to try that now. VO Comment: Thoughtful. Then he rethinks it and realizes it would be too dangerous to try under these circumstances

[Approaching the coffins in the first room of the Shadowy Crypt]

Why did we come here again? VO Comment: Annoyed. Knowingly walked into a trap and starting to regret it

[ricky-mortis]

Curtwen Week Day 4: Haunted

[hearteyespierce]

[scumvillainess]

au where the entire plot of pidw gets derailed when shen qingqiu shows up with a baby and announces to the rest of the world that yue qingyuan got him pregnant.

(i think there’s a fanfic where sqq babytraps yqy but i just can’t find it for the life of me)

[captainhysunstuff]

@lawlightweek2024 Day 2: Soul mates (sort of)!

L runs into a newly brandished Detective Light Yagami at a park, and the two easily reconnect~.

This wasn't my original plan for this prompt, but I still wanted to get across that these dudes just kind of... belong together, y'know?